


This Beating Heart

by yellow_backpack



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peterick, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:07:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_backpack/pseuds/yellow_backpack
Summary: Ugh. This one is awful. Have it though





	This Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheesehunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesehunter/gifts).



> Haha I feel bad for those of you who actually choose to read it it's terrible :)

Patrick tossed his head back, letting the pills fall down his throat. Wait—was he supposed to take two? Oh well. Didn't matter.

 

They were only antidepressants. His doctor figured that they were necessary for him to keep the depression at bay, but they didn't work.

 

Somehow, it had gotten worse after his split with Elisa. He felt even more frazzled than usual, like he was going to fall apart any second. Again.

 

Patrick decided that he was going to stay quiet. He'd already had one mental breakdown this week—he figured Pete wouldn't want to deal with another one. _That's right_ , the voice in his head sneered. _You stay quiet and then maybe we can try again later. It'll work this time. I'll make sure you stay dead. Make sure Pete doesn't find you._

 

Patrick shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the voice. That voice. It had always been there, and Patrick hated it, but he knew that what it was saying was right. He was a burden to Pete, and he knew it. Maybe Pete would be better off if he didn't need to worry about Patrick anymore. Aside from that, Patrick had feelings for Pete—the love kind. And Pete didn't know. But that was the last thing he could worry about for now.

 

Patrick sighed. _Okay_ , he told the voice in his head. _You can have it your way. You're right anyways. What now?_

 

 _Kitchen. Knife_. Patrick started to question, but was immediately cut off. _You don't deserve a painless death. Or a quick one. Otherwise I'd have you take the revolver Pete always keeps in the drawer by the bed. Instead, you get painful and slow. Now go._

 

Patrick obeyed the instructions, trudging into the kitchen and opening the drawer where he knew the knife was. He pulled it out slowly, the blade glinting in the light coming from the solitary lightbulb in the ceiling.

 

 _Bathroom_.

 

Patrick obeyed that order too, shuffling his feet on the carpet as he went. He entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Sliding open the shower curtain, he stepped in and slid it shut. He glanced at the knife. Now or never. Patrick pushed his cardigan sleeves back and held the knife to his right wrist first, pressing the blade against the pale skin.

 

 _Now_.

 

Hot tears rushed down his cheeks as the knife glided smoothly across his wrist, opening up veins and scarring skin. There was so much blood that when he tried to do his left, his fingers almost slipped.

 

 _See? Pathetic_. The voice was back. _Can't even kill yourself right. You coward._

 

That made Patrick all the more determined. He got a grip on the knife and slashed his remaining wrist. Blood spurted out of his arm and soaked his cardigan and button-up underneath.

 

He started to feel the effects of the blood loss about thirty seconds later. Slowly pulling up his knees to his chest, he idly wondered if Pete would be able to save him this time. Losing consciousness fast, his head dropped and his eyes closed. His last thought was: _Pete_.

  
  


“Patrick! Hey, man, I'm home!” Pete called as he opened the door to their apartment. Patrick had moved in after the split because Elisa insisted she should have the house. He set the bags of groceries down on the kitchen counter, making his way to Patrick's bedroom. He figured he was asleep. It had been a couple weeks since they had broken up, and Patrick was still recovering. _Poor kid. He took it so hard._

 

Pete paused when he reached Patrick's door. “Patrick?” Pete asked, knocking lightly. Receiving no response, he edged the door open, assuming Patrick to be in bed. He turned the light on, stunned when he found the bed empty.

 

Pete's smile turned to a frown as he grew concerned. “Patrick,” he whispered, backing out of the room. “Where are you?”

 

Pete paused and almost keeled over in the hall by the bathroom. That _smell_. What was that smell? It was awful. He moved into the kitchen, trying to track it—he was only disappointed when it got more faint. He backtracked and paused again at the bathroom door.

 

He suddenly recognized the smell. Iron. And that smells like…

 

Pete felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He attacked the door, kicking and punching, doing anything he could to try and get it open.

 

“Patrick!” he screamed. His heel hit the right spot just under the doorknob, and the door gave way. He rushed into the bathroom, ripping back the shower curtain. What he saw horrified him.

 

Patrick was huddled in the corner of the shower, legs resting against the wall and hands in his lap. His eyes were closed and his head had lolled forward, his chin resting on his chest.

 

Pete surged into the shower, phone already in hand and up to his ear. He was on the verge of tears as the phone rang. “Patrick, wake up, you son of a gun!” Pete yelled.

 

“911, what's your emergency?”

 

Pete snapped out of his shock. “I-I just got home and he's here, he's in the shower, he slit his wrists—I don't know what to do, help me, oh _God_ —”

 

“Is he still breathing?”

 

“I-I don’t…” Pete put his hand up to Patrick’s chest, relieved when he felt gentle rising and falling, but concerned when he noticed that the breaths were way too shallow. “He’s breathing, but… God, send an ambulance! _Please!_ "

 

“Location?”

 

Pete gave it to her and put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, shaking him hard. “Patrick, ‘Trick, oh my God, wake up, babe,” Pete said. His eyes widened. If Patrick found out…

 

No. He couldn’t worry about that right now.

 

Pete stayed there until the ambulances arrived, shaking Patrick and yelling at him. He had to be pulled off of him, as he didn’t want to leave but was in the paramedics’ way. He fought them the whole time, kicking and screaming. They didn’t understand, _he_ needed to be with Patrick right now, not _them_. _They_ didn’t understand him as well as Pete did. They didn’t know what type of medications he was on, how gently he needed to be treated. _They_ were doing everything wrong.

 

The paramedics managed to get Patrick into the ambulance before pulling away. Pete immediately ran into his car and peeled out after them, tires screeching.

  
  


It was a while before the doctor came out. Three hours, twenty-six minutes and forty-seven seconds, to be exact. Pete counted every single second. He just wanted to see Patrick okay.

 

“Someone here for Patrick Stump?”

 

Pete jumped out of his chair. “Me. I am.”

 

Pete heard some people gasping to his left. “Patrick? Stump?” Hushed whispers came from all around. “Isn’t he the lead singer of Fall Out Boy?”

 

Pete glared at them. This was not their issue.

 

The doctor glanced at her clipboard. “Well, he’s stable,” she said with a worried look on her face.

 

“But what?” Pete inquired, impatient. _Just tell me if he’s okay._

 

“But… the damage is pretty deep.” She looked up. “And I’m not just talking about physically here.”

 

“I know,” Pete whispered. “Can he have visitors?”

 

“Depends. Are you family?”

 

Pete considered that for a while. “Might as well be,” he concluded.

 

The doctor grimaced. “Okay, then. Follow me.” She turned around and started walking. Pete followed. “But don’t be too surprised when you see what we had to do to get him stable.”

 

Pete’s heart stopped. What had they _done_ to him?

 

They rounded the corner and arrived at Patrick’s room. 247. Pete didn’t like that number. He took a deep breath and stepped inside anyway.

 

The sight of the love of his life (even though he didn’t know it yet) under the thin sheets on the stark-white bed made Pete stop in his tracks. His fedora and his glasses had been thrown askew on the bedside table. His clothes had been discarded somewhere along the journey—Pete didn’t see them anywhere at all. Patrick’s arms, his chest, everything was covered in silicone pads. Bandages covered his wrists along with gauze starting to soak through with blood. Pete looked at the heart monitor. 63 beats per minute. Pete gasped. That was incredibly low for anyone.

 

Pete turned to the doctor. “Is he gonna be alright?”

 

“Yeah, he’ll heal up in a few weeks no problem.” Her expression turned grave. “But you’re going to need to talk to someone about… you know… up here.” She pointed to her head.

 

“Yeah,” Pete said, sadness washing over him. He wasn’t sad for him, no—he was sad for Patrick, the sweet, tiny, always happy strawberry-blond. He hadn’t even seen, hadn’t seen what was going to happen. _How bad of a friend do you have to be?_

 

The nurse smiled a kind one, looking like she knew exactly what was going through Pete’s head. “I’ll leave you alone.”

 

Pete watched her as she closed the door behind her and sat down, sighing. He scooted his chair closer to Patrick’s bed, putting his hand up to gently caress Patrick’s cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t there for you enough. Couldn’t see. Too blind. I wish… I wish I was in your place. Even if all your pain was mine, I’d do it in an instant so you could be okay. I’d do anything for you. I hope you know that, ‘Tricky,” he said, using the nickname that Patrick had pretended to hate for so long. Figuring he was safe, Pete went on. “I… Patrick, here’s the thing. I love you. Like, _love_ love you. A lot. And I know that you don’t feel the same way about me, and I’ve convinced myself that that’s fine, but… I just… I love you. I want you to know that even if you don’t.” Pete brushed a stray lock of hair out of Patrick’s face. “We’ll talk more when you wake up.” He carefully brushed a kiss against Patrick’s cheek and sat back down, holding Patrick’s hand in his own.

  
  


The bright light streaming in through the room window woke Pete up. He cursed softly, squinting his eyes and standing up to close the blinds. After accomplishing that, he turned around and noticed the doctor coming in the door, switching out some meds on the table. And then he noticed that Patrick wasn’t in the bed anymore. “Doc? Where’s Patrick?”

 

“He’s cleaning up. He requested to be discharged this morning.”

 

“He did?” Pete asked, confused.

 

“Yup. Said he wanted to go home. Do you know where he lives, by any chance?”

 

“Um. Actually,” Pete said, looking down to hide his blush. “He lives with me.”

 

The doctor’s lips curled into a smirk. “Aw. Cute. So…”

 

Pete knew what she was trying to ask. “No! No,” he said. “We’re not, like…” Pete didn’t want to finish answering the question. “...I _want_ to,” he admitted, eyes on his feet.

 

“So why don’t you?”

 

“I… I don’t think he likes guys. Why do you ask?” Pete asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You should’ve seen him this morning. I came in to take his blood pressure while you were still asleep and he was looking at you. I asked him why and he said he couldn’t believe that you had come back for him. He thought you hated him. He thought you didn’t want him at your house.” She paused. “Make sure he knows you love him, ‘kay? And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s into you too,” she said with a wink. “Besides, you’d be adorable. As a couple.”

 

Pete stared at her, open-mouthed. Did she just say what Pete thought she did? Patrick… liked him?

 

Noticing the expression on Pete’s face, the doctor quicky apologized. “I’m sorry, it was none of my business. I shouldn’t have—”

 

“It’s okay,” Pete assured her, still incredulous. “It’s okay.”

 

“Good.” The doctor smiled. “You’d better start packing up his stuff. I think he’s gonna be out in a few.”

 

Pete nodded. The doctor left right as Patrick walked back in the door, dressed in his normal clothes again. They were clean, though. Had they washed them?

 

“Patrick,” Pete breathed, moving towards him. He wrapped him in the tightest bear hug he could, breathing in his scent: a mixture of wood and cinnamon. It was so uniquely Patrick, and Pete wanted to stay there and hold him forever, even though he knew he couldn’t. Not yet.

 

“Mmph. Gentle,” Patrick groaned, his voice still thick with sleep. It was beautiful.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Pete said, pulling away. “How are you feeling?”

 

“ _Exhausted_ ,” Patrick murmured, and it was the truth—Pete could see his eyelids fluttering open and shut as he leaned forward to rest his head on Pete’s shoulder.

 

“Alright,” Pete said softly, wrapping his arms around Patrick. “We’ll grab your stuff and check you out. Then we can go home. Okay? Sound good?”

 

“Sounds wonderful,” Patrick breathed. He unwillingly let go of Pete. Pete wrapped an arm around his shoulder, gently putting the hat back on Patrick and stuffing the glasses into his own shirt pocket. They walked out of the room together.

  
  


Once they got home, Patrick made a beeline for his room and collapsed onto the bed. Pete followed him there, making sure he was comfortable. Pete pulled off his shoes and cardigan off for him and tossed the hat onto the dresser. He pulled the covers up to Patrick’s chin. “Need anything else, ba—” Pete caught himself, but it was too late. Patrick’s eyes were wide open.

 

“What?”

 

Pete swallowed. “I asked if you needed anything else.”

 

“No, Pete,” Patrick said. “You almost called me something. What was it?”

 

“I… nothing,” Pete said, turning away. “You wouldn’t like it.”

 

“I think I’d like it more than you think,” Patrick whispered. Pete turned around again to find Patrick sitting up in his bed.

 

“Wait—what?”

 

“I heard you and the doctor talking when I got to the room.” Pete’s face went dark red. Patrick smiled weakly. “I stayed outside for a while.”

 

Pete looked down. “So, uh. You heard… all that?”

 

Patrick nodded. “Every word.”

 

“I’m so sorry. I know you’re not into that kind of thing, but I can’t help it, and if you want me to stop I’ll stop, I understand—”

 

“No,” Patrick said firmly.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because, Pete, the truth is… me too,” Patrick finally admitted. His voice was soft. “I want you too. The doctor was right.”

 

Pete stared at Patrick. “Oh, God, good.” He walked over and sat on Patrick’s bed. “But I think we need to talk about something else first.” He gestured to Patrick’s wrists.

 

A melancholy look crossed the younger man’s face. “ _Oh_ ,” he whispered, looking down.

 

“Hey, look at me, baby,” Pete said, tilting up Patrick’s head. “I can call you that now, right?”

 

Patrick nodded, his eyes dull, lifeless, sad. It broke Pete’s heart.

 

“Why?”

 

Patrick hung his head, ashamed. He didn’t want to have to explain. “Lots of things.”

 

“Any specifics?”

 

Shaking his head, Patrick uttered, “I can’t.” His eyes started to water as he started to remember things he didn’t want to. “Not now.”

 

“Are you sure? I’ll leave it for now if you want me to, but you know you’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later, right, love?” Pete asked, taking Patrick’s hands.

 

“Yes,” was all Patrick could manage to choke out before he felt like the weight of the world had crashed down onto his shoulders. He didn’t want to cry, but he did—he cried about Elisa, he cried about Pete. He cried for himself, too, but for what he didn’t know. He didn’t deserve tears. He didn’t deserve Pete.

 

Pete just pulled him into a hug. “Hey, baby, it’s alright, I’m here, you know I am.” Patrick shook harder, not seeming to hear him.

 

“Pete, you shouldn’t have let me live. I should’ve died right there in the shower. I can’t—please don’t make me do this. I don’t want to be here,” Patrick sobbed.

 

His voice was so shaky that Pete was having a hard time hearing him. “Hey, sweetheart, please don’t say those things about yourself. You’re so much more than you realize, I promise.”

 

Patrick shook his head, whimpering. “No,” he said. “Messed up. Basket case. Deserve to die. Don’t want to live. Unlovable.” He went on and on.

 

Pete’s heart ached for him. How long had he been feeling like this? _Oh, Patrick_. “No, no, no,” he whispered to a trembling Patrick. “Angel, you don’t deserve to die. No one does. Oh, my God, Patrick, how long have you been feeling like this and I haven’t seen? I’m so, so sorry. I hate seeing you like this. We’ll get you to somebody to talk, alright? A therapist. Whatever’s in your head saying those things is wrong.”

 

Patrick shifted in Pete’s arms, letting himself be pulled closer. He didn’t want to cry, but dangit, he couldn’t help it. Everything that had happened to him in the past few weeks had snowballed and left him like this. He simply didn’t want to go on.

 

Pete kissed Patrick’s head and slowly moved his hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him down somewhat. “Ssshhh, baby. Quiet down. It’ll get better. I’ll make sure of it.” He reached up with his other hand and ran it through Patrick’s soft blond hair, kissing his cheek.

 

Patrick’s sobs and sniffles soon died off into soft hiccups and whimpers, and soon after that he was a solid weight on Pete’s shoulder. He had cried himself to sleep.

 

It probably wasn't the first time he'd done that. _I’m so sorry, angel,_ Pete thought. He laid Patrick back down on the bed and gently put the blankets over them both, wrapping his arms around Patrick's waist. “My beautiful baby,” Pete said as he drifted off to sleep, Patrick in his arms. “I love you.”


End file.
